


ArisHawke shorts

by Farstrider



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-01-07
Updated: 2012-03-19
Packaged: 2017-10-29 02:48:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 7,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/314996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Farstrider/pseuds/Farstrider
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of shorts involving the interesting relationship between a Hawke and the Arishok. Runs somewhat parallel to later chapters of Care & Feeding.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Bargain

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [ArisHawke shorts](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7635667) by [Mortiferum](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mortiferum/pseuds/Mortiferum)



A courtesy he called it. A courtesy. A warning that the Arishok had permitted a chemical to be stolen from the Qunari compound by fools who thought it was the explosive. It was worse than the Gatlok.

On the stairs behind him, just above the curling green fog that made his heart race and actually thirst for blood shed, he and his companions hunkered. Aveline had found a barrel to put an injured Fenris on, not that the elf cooperated but the crushed ribs from a revers’s hammer had his struggling to breath and partially glowing. Aveline’s own fingers twitched with the urge to kill something but she fought it and used it to hold Fenris back. Sebastian was running litany after litany through his mind as he gripped Temperance tight in one hand while holding a cloth over his face with the other.

He should have brought Merill or woken Anders… no the mage was exhausted from the last foray to the Bone Pits with him, magic all but spent and he knew better than to mix him with Sebastian and Fenris. Hawke’s fingers dug into a pouch and pulled his last vial of the red healing potion. It was cracked, leaking and half gone.

“Hawke we cannot stay here.” Aveline pulled him from his thoughts. “Fenris needs healing badly.”

“I am fine woman…” the elf snarled then coughed, red spattering the back of his gauntlet as he wheezed. It turned Conner’s stomach into knots.

“We need the gas shut off first. The longer its around the worse it will get.” Hawke flipped his blades in his hands as he thought. Internally he warred with this… hunger for violence. He feared he would not know friend from foe…

 _It will be interesting to see if you die, Serrah._

 _  
_

The Arishok’s mocking voice rang in his head, driving what control he had to the brink.

“Sebastian cover this alley way… if you don’t recognize anyone shoot them.” He ordered. “Tie a flash bang to one of your arrows and shoot it upwards, like we discussed. Hopefully Merill remembered what it means.”

“Hawke… you better not be doing something foolish.” the exile warned but seemed to do as told, searching in one of his many pockets for what he needed.

“Hawke…” Conner looked up to meet Fenris’ gaze…for a moment his gut tightened again with a different desire…memories of the night near a month ago playing in his head.

“Mind what Aveline says. Don’t die on me.” the rogue ordered before pulling up his mask to cover his mouth and nose…then dove into the crawling fog.

Fenris surged forward into the guardswoman, reaching out for Hawke a curse snarling over his lips. She held him down and pushed his back against the wall making the barrel teeter.

“Damnit Fenris! Stay put.” she snapped. “He knows what he is doing.”

“He will die if he fights alone!” even Sebastian winced at the desperate strain at the end of those words.

“We have to have Faith in our dear shadow tonight, Fenris.” Sebastian tried to sooth… out beyond the alley way the sounds of steel clashing meandered their way. He fished out of one of his many pockets another healing potion, handing it to Aveline. “Drink this and stay still. Let us hope this flare works to summon our friends.”

————-

Out in the mist Hawke skulked, looking for more iron latches to close the endlessly belching barrels. The gas made his skin itch and his eyes burn. His lungs felt like they would burst or in the least he desired to reach in and scratch at the insides of them. His heart thundered as loud as the foot steps of those driven mad by the gas… it was happening to him he knew it. Each kill came easier, he felt less attached to every twisted face he saw fall to the ground and go still. The steps of his deadly dance were so easy…effortless…

What frightened him was the smile on his face as he felt Senka sink deep into a man’s ribs, twist and exit through his guts, spilling them underfoot. The sheer visceral pleasure of the crunch of bone and the heat of blood seeping beneath his leather armor. He felt drunk, heady… elated…and hungry.

 _No… no calm yourself!_ He tried to will it into him. If he gave in… he was no better than the fools he was killing. _Find the calm…where this doesn’t matter… focus on the job._

 _Right foot forward, swing right arm around, let Cassandra bite into the left shoulder of an attacker. Use their momentum to spin, roll over their back, kicking the swordsman behind in the elbow, disarm him._

He worked through every step, every motion to become detached to it even as his heart and blood burned for that… _bestial_ pleasure of the kill. He did not hear much of what the mad elf said to him, or how he responded…

Time had no meaning in the Cadence of his dance. Like it had no meaning during The Run. He did not feel pain… he didn’t feel anything…only the motion forward and the anticipation of the next move.

His vision cleared as a strong wind blew through the courtyard, Merrill’s chanting resounding off the walls. The air stank less, and he could see properly what damage he’d wrought. The ground was saturated with blood, body parts everywhere… it looked like a Blood Mage had a frat party with ten of his best friends.

“H…Hawke?” Merrill hedged.

“Don’t come down here!” He shouted, voice hoarse from battle cries he did not remember.

“You’re hurt…” He was aware that she had not set foot on the ground yet, of eyes on him from the guards and on lookers…he could smell Isabella’s perfume on the wind, out of the corner of his eye he could see Sebastian leading Aveline and Fenris back out into the clearing…

“Flames…” Aveline shuddered, he could hear her armor move. Sebastian muttered the maker’s name behind his hand as he tried not to throw up…so much blood everywhere.

 _They’d be such easy prey… so easy to take down._ His mind ran through the steps easy as you please to add their blood to the dance floor. Hawke could feel the hunger in his blades for it, strained every muscle to stay perfectly still, to not act.

“Hawke…buddy… its over.” Varric’s soft voice came from too close behind him…a touch of a hand to blood soaked leather.

“ **Stay away from me!** ” Conner barked loud enough to make Varric flinch and nearly trip over a corpse.

“He… is still under the effects.. of the gas…” Fenris piped up through labored breath. “We all are…”

“Doesn’t this stuff cause permanent madness and death, Broody?” Varric was backing away from everyone, Bianca moving into his hands. He wouldn’t shoot to kill. _A shame I’d like to… no no focus Conner!_

“Yes.” he hissed in reply. “There is no antidote.”

“I don’t buy it.” Varric shook his head. “The Arishok has plenty of people who aren’t Qunari in his compound and they’d go mad so there has to be an antidote.”

Conner moved…He did not listen to the calls behind him as he went from still to sprinting across the gore covered earth, bounding up a stair well and grabbing onto a window sill. He was a master of every roof top in Kirkwall…and he did not trust himself should he meet trouble between here and the Arishok.

He could not recall the journey there at all. He was puling himself onto a roof top one moment and dropping off of one the next right behind the Arishok. His hands twisted into that long silver hair, winding around a horn to pull the massive male backwards off his throne and onto the stone. Shouts rose, weapons were brandished, curses uttered.

It all stopped when Cassandra kissed the Ox Lord’s throat and let out crimson.

“The Gas…it has an antidote.” Conner snarled, honey eyes bright with barely contained blood lust. “You will give it to me.”

“I do not shrink to the demands of a Basra, Hawke.” Oddly the Arishok did not move or try to escape his hold, rather he remained perfectly still. “You have breathed in much of it… you will die.”

“You first…”

“You wish to save yourself.” the Qunari leader spat glaring. “All baas are selfish and…”

“ **Shut up!** ” Cassandra dug deeper into flesh earning a snarl. “My companions breathed it, innocents breathed it…it soaks the blooded earth. You have people who are not Qunari blooded with you. They do not fear the gas either.”

“Those in the Qun do not fear. They obey or die.”

“It would be a tatical disadvantage.” Hawke cocked his head to the side, for a moment reminiscent of the bird he was named for. “You have no value in money or trinkets. I do not know what you seek nor will you let me find it. I would trade for it if you name a price.”

The Arishok paused for a long moment and considered his foe. Hawke was shaking to hold back his blood lust. With the amount of gore he was covered in he had to have been exposed to the gas for a long time. Around those bright gold irises his eyes were blood shot, skin clammy…yet he held back.

“You.”

“Excuse me?”

“You.” he repeated. “You will remain until my curiosity of you is satisfied. The Qun demands all curiosities be satisfied. It is my duty to do this.”

“In exchange for my friends getting the cure.”

“Indeed.”

Hawke considered it for half a heartbeat before he let the Arishok go, withdrawing his blade. “I will not be forced to join the Qun. I will not be kept here forever.”

“This is agreeable. You will; however, remain in the compound until you are cleansed of the Saar-qamek. It will take time and it will be painful.” Arishok explained as he rolled to his feet and towered over the human.

“You give the antidote to my friends first.”

“Agreed.”

“Than it is done.” his blades spun in his hands before he presented them hilt first to the Arishok.

“As you say.” The Arishok barked a few orders, his guards standing down, one leaving on a task. “Aravaard will find the one you call Guardswoman and give her the antidote. You will remain.”


	2. Hawke is not a Bird

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Arishok learns just how annoying a bored Hawke can be.

The Arishok was known for his patience. Not his understanding but his rock steady patience. His… house guest… was testing that very virtue to its limits.

The first day had been quiet, Hawke rendered unconscious for his own good as the medicine to remove the effects of the poisonous gas worked in his battered system.

The second day he was in and out of wakefulness in a delirium, talking in his weakened state. It was best to keep him down as the cure and the gas stripped one of their ability to keep their emotions in check. For the enemies of the Qun this was often their downfall.

Not Hawke.

Even then he willed himself to not say too much when questioned…but the Arishok still learned. Learned of how Hawke’s mother was killed. Learned of the Blight and the Flemeth.

Hovering too close he’d been clawed when Hawke awoke the third day into a panic. The bas was a smaller man than he yet had strength and speed even injured and out of his mind. The Arishok found himself talking Hawke out of a tight corner with a blade in his hand, where it came from he knew not, and learned of the Deep Roads and Hawke’s Fear.

He learned he preferred Conner as a name, one given to him by his Father. He challenged the Arishok in his thoughts on what it was to be strong.

 _“You were born with strength… you were born to it like the Nobility here were to money. You do not know a cold night with an empty belly. You do not know broken fingers from being caught by mercenaries or the heel of a Templar’s boot in your gut. You do not know what it means to be weak. How can you know strength if you do not know its opposite?”_

Those words still wandered through the Arishok’s mind now, in the morning of the fourth day… he also wondered how long it would take for Hawke to regain his faculties for this… insult could not be allowed.

“Get… off.”

“No”

“Hawke…”

“That is my name.”

“You will release me or I will tear you down and tie you in the tent.”

“Kinky.” the man grinned upside down at him. “I always wondered at Qunari mating practices.”

Arishok felt his anger burn as he yet again reached up to try and snatch the human who was… ‘hand standing’ on his horns. No matter how he snatched, or twisted, tossed his head or spun Hawke was not dislodged or slipped out of his grasp to simply go right back to where _he_ wanted to be.

“You behave unlike your name sake.”

“Pffft I’m not a bird.”

“Clearly.” The Arishok sighed and stilled… and after a moment felt the weight of the rogue disappear form his head as the man landed on the ground gracefully. Hawke than looked nonchalantly over his shoulder before _strutting_ into the Arishok’s tent where he was supposed to be resting.

Hawke… was a Cat… that was the only explanation for it.


	3. Measure of a Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Arishok maps out the history of the man Hawke by learning the history of his scars.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ NSFW nothing juicy that’s coming elsewhere but still not safe. Mention of Non Con situations so if this is also not your thing move along.]

This was part of the deal… the cure for satisfaction of his curiosity of the man called Hawke. A week the man had been pent up in his compound; each day bringing with it a layer, yet another thread in the tapestry that made the cloth of this man’s being.

Though the Arishok had seen him laid bare before only now did he get time to study that sun kissed skin, marred by roads and crossings, splotches and craters of scars. His claws trace newer ones, still pink, still fresh from the fight on the ‘Night of Fear’ as the rumors named it. They were hidden beneath the cotton tunic, the layers of leather and canvas and smiles and smirks.

Here, now… The Hawke is bare, sky clad, with no masks for his mind cannot create them, no barriers between him and the War Leader who looms over him.

The Qunari’s hands are big enough to wrap around his rib cage and crush it if he felt so inclined. The knee and thigh between the man’s legs dwarfs his own, as do other things still hidden from the rogue’s view.

Tonight there will be no… intimacy… Hawke’s still healing injuries demand he be careful. Tonight is for learning the body.

It does not stop Hawke from making soft sounds - still masculine sounding - yet delicate for a man of the blade, for a Tallis. It does not stop him from becoming responsive, becoming flushed with heat and arousal. The Arishok forgives him this, as he is still mending the effects of the gas and the cure and for being Basra.

Arishok asks after scars and marks as he traces them. They are like the writings in the tomes of his people’s history. His questioning cools the heat burning in Hawke’s veins some but not completely.

He asks about the unmoving toes of one foot and is told of a Templar attack on Hawke’s Sister.

He asks to the dent in his knee and is told of a bar fight with soldiers his Brother started and he finished.

He asks to the burn mark on an arm and is told of the escape from the Blight. Another mark on the arm is from a broken bone from a fall and his Father’s fury.

Claws travel up the inside of a strong thigh and find old, faint scratches…

“What are these?” his fingers quest only to be stopped as Hawke moves, sitting up, curling into himself. Bright moon gold eyes struggle to hold in whatever emotions are brought up by the marks.

A man the Arishok has seen stand proud before him shakes like a frightened child and wills himself to not be weak in front of someone who is not his friend, or even ally.

He has seen Hawke covered in gore and blood, his blades slick with the lives of the fallen and those eyes… unnatural, beautiful eyes filled with a wildness, a hunger only battle can sate.

He does not like the look of Fear there, the stink of it nor the tremble it causes. It is different than his fear of being caged, being crushed beneath the earth…

This is a fear someone put in him.

Thoughts of exploration end and experimentation comes to the for… he knows this gesture as it is for children yet he has seen grown Basra greet one another in this manner.

So he pulls the Hawke into his lap, wraps his arms around him and he goes still… perfectly, absolutely still… and he wonders if this was the wrong choice.

After a moment…Hawke speaks. His eyes are open, staring at nothing, but he speaks. He answers Arishok’s question. He wills himself to. He tells of not a single incident but several.

The first was a pack of mercenaries who were preying on their land.

The second drunken slobs from his own village.

The third his introduction to the Red Iron after sending his sibling away. A willing sacrifice to keep her safe. A sacrifice that carried on for a year.

When Arishok asks why… why he lets this happen he is answered by a simple whisper of words before words cannot be said and only tears flow, unchecked and unbound, his Will fraying to its end.

“Because I can’t let it happen to them. It is my duty to protect those I love… no sacrifice is too small…and yet I’ve failed them anyway.”

He cries for his Father.

For his Brother and words unsaid

For his Mother - long and loud - for his failures

For his Sister locked in the Gallows.

For Fenris bound by the chains of a past he cannot grasp.

For Anders and his sacrifices, time and again, leaving him bereft.

For Merrill and her intentions and the folly they will lead her to.

For Isabella and the heart she hides.

For Sebastian and the life he denies himself because he is too bound by a duty not his own.

For Varric and the troubles he mounts on himself and the bitter taste of betrayal

For Aveline and being the one to land the killing blow to her Husband.

For a city that rips itself apart and he stands grasping at straws to keep it together as he unravels…

As all things do the tears end, the painful sucking of breath through unstable chest and lips. He has surely hurt himself in the process as his voice whines as he breaths to calm down, to force it back…

To put the maelstrom back in the bottle.

“Stop.” Arishok’s words startle Hawke and he stills again. “You… have no need of the mantles you make here. I wished to see what makes you… you. Do not hide here.”

“You must think me a fool.” Hawke’s voice is small, like his body curled in the Arishok’s lap, in his arms his head pillowed on his painted chest. Both men know if he wished it, Hawke could be dead with a strong embrace… yet the human trusts him enough to cause no harm.

“You are a man.” Arishok answers, finding his fingers running through the unruly mop of dark hair, around the shell of an ear, down the column of the rogue’s neck. “I see that now.”

Yet this is not enough to describe him…not enough…simply not enough. His curiosity is still unstated. But he can wait.

He is patient.


	4. Maelstrom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Takes place after Measure of a Man - The Arishok's internal thoughts as he watches Conner practice in the morning.

The night before he was a trembling imakari in my arms, broken by the weight that crushes his spirit, by the burdens this festering city puts upon him. I recall with great clarity the way his face twisted in his grief - his rage - at himself and the man who took his mother from him. Who made him weak and tore from him that which he loved.

The Saar-qamek robs him of the ability to hold it in. It demands his abandon, his emotions be let lose and he is powerless against it… yet he tries anyway. He rebels and demands his will remain as iron in the face of his own molten hot passions.

You cannot see this grief this morning. In the scant light of dawn, high upon the center wall of our compound his face is serene, calm, free of the lines of worry that age him so. He looks fresh, like a withered plant given enough water and sun… no… his movements with his blades - metal flashing in the light - belie the turbulence within.

He is the sea containing the rage of a storm. A Maestrom which I have only seen a gimps of on the horizon.

The dark metal of the wicked blade he calls Cass caresses the bare skin of his arm as he practices, perched high and dangerous at a distance that will kill a man should he fall. The stone is barely a battle stance wide yet he moves as if it is a street. Bright flashing Senka - it means Shadow he tells me - weaves in the air, skirting his kicking legs, narrowly avoiding catching on the rough cotton pants I permitted him.

He is motion… he is beautiful. He is a poem writing itself in sweat and the sing of steel in the morning air. He is a puzzle knot I have yet to even begin to unravle. In what time I have I doubt I shall see all of him.

I already know more than most.

He should be resting… yet I cannot bare to call him down. I am entranced. I must admit that to myself. He is a mystery wrapped in scars and guarded by the kiss of his own fangs. One day I shall know their bite.

That is not today.


	5. Gifts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A gift given, a gift recieved

The Arishok eyed the small, cloth bound item sitting on his throne a week after Kadan-Conner left his company. He did not say this name out loud. It was a name, a title, for another time and place.

The little package intrigued him, the cloth red and bright, soft to the touch. Unwinding it from the object within he discovered it to be a large cloth belt - not dissimilar to the one that he once had, that was ruined, in said other time and place.

Inside of the cloth was a book. It was small in his hands but would fit a Basra fine. He knew how to read their tongue, it was his duty to…

It was a collection of poetry. On the inside of the cover Hawke’s stick like writing greeted him.

“Let us roll all our Strength, and all  
Our sweetness, up into one Ball:  
And tear our Pleasures with rough strife,  
Through the Iron gates of Life”*

It was a very Hawke thing to say.

The Arishok spent the day reading the book, between his duties of course, folding the corners of the tiny pages whenever he found one to his liking or confusion.

A week later Hawke came, news of dead warriors and crazy chantry involvement he knew of.

He snapped and snarled and Hawke did not flinch nor back down. He dismissed all but Hawke and the rogue followed him to his quarters without question once his companions left him behind.

“It is… customary for one to give a gift if one receives one.” he told the man, his Kadan, and offered him a small item wrapped in red cloth.

Clever fingers took it, unwound the red fabric to unveil a rectangular piece of metal. “One of your earrings.” He observed now noticing one was indeed missing. It was far too large for the human to use in the same way. “Thank you.”

They parted without any more words - none were needed.

The next he saw Hawke… poking out from the open collar of his jerkin was his earring on a leather cord about his throat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Poem "To His Coy Mistress" by Andrew Marvell


	6. Equal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The inevitable occurs. Neither can back down from who they are... for to do so would be to lie and cheapen one another. There is too much respect - bordering on affection - between them for such foolishness.

This was inevitable… these steps… this hall. The whistle of metal through the air… the breaking of stone… the cries of battle.

His companions do not know the cost of this fight. They do not see what it took to get from the Docks to the Keep and to stand before the Arishok now.

 _“I told you at the docks, Arishok, that were I in your position I would protect what is mine.” Hawke said standing before the Pirate woman. “She is one of mine. So you go through me for her.”_

 

Finally he can see the last true parts of his Kadan-Conner. Now he sees the truth to the Hawke.

Blades clash and breaths roar. Blood is spilled one cut for another. Neither give quarter, neither submit, neither back down.

This is not an intimate dance within the confines of the Arishok’s tent… where scared skin writhes and dances beneath the touch of hands. This is not where voices raise in passionate please…

He does not call his name in passion or abandonment with his head thrown back, hair soaked with sweat as bliss takes him because of what the Arishok does to him.

He calls his name in impassioned determination as he bounds off of a pillar into raised weapons, gold eyes aflame in the heat of battle.

It is a far sweeter sound

There is no softness here. No half measures or compromise.

One of them must die today… and yet battle is equal.

Conner crouches half a room away, one blade shattered and useless, his arm holding his gut in hopes of keeping his insides where they ought to be. Blood runs down his face, across the gash on his nose and cheek, down his good arm and along the black blade he calls Cassandra.

Arishok stands breathing heavy, one arm completely useless, the broken blade of Senka sunk into his thigh that slows him down. His armor is torn in places from the bites of Fangs and poison runs in his veins.

He knows a poison runs in Hawke’s too… a poison of emotion… a poison that makes a Basra equal to a Qunari he drank before the fight began.

This fight… may kill them both.

The Arishok bellows and charges… Hawke answers in kind…

Blades clash and blood flies…their gazes meet…and pass.

His sword falters but a moment, a blow that would kill and he stops it mid swing. Only Hawke will know.

Cassandra does not stop… bites into his chest before pulling out as Hawke circles around to make her bite again in the shoulder…

The Arishok falls… breaths his last command.

“We will… Return…”

Their eyes stay locked as Hawke does what he must… there is no joy there… no satisfaction…

The Arishok regrets leaving behind sorrow in his Kadan’s eyes. There is no avoiding it however.

It is… inevitable.


	7. After the Fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first acts of a Champion

Conner does not move from where he kneels on the Arishok’s chest, panting hard, bleeding over cooling skin and a chest that does not billow with breath any more. He leans forward, until their brows meet and sucks in an unsteady breath.

“Fair well… Kadan.” He whispers and then stands, a hand to his stomach to keep his guts in and limps over to the Arishok’s fallen blade. It is twice his size and he feels blood seep out between his fingers as he hefts it and offers it to the nearest Sten.

“Take his blade… and your book… and Go.” He orders. They know the truth of their meetings… know what the Hawke meant to the Arishok. Perhapse it was his folly… most see it as the clash of two worthy opponents.

The Sten does not speak, simply takes the weapon and gestures to the others. The hall empties of Qunari just as the Templars muscle their way in - late to the party.

His companions move in close, Anders first to see to his injuries but he pushes past to grab Isabella around the neck and shove her against a pillar.

“You… this is all your doing.” He hisses, face torn with rage and tracks of sweat… not tears he lies to himself. “All this death! All this time! Because of you and your STUPID GREED!” he’s cutting off her air and she struggles less than she can.

She’s frozen in fear… fear because so angry he could snap her neck and she knows it.

“All of this… every life lost… every night of turmoil… the Saar-qumek… Patrice…Seamus… THIS… do you think its worth it woman?! DO YOU?!” He shakes her and she whimpers. “Every life lost is on your hands. Ever drop of blood, every fire that burns a home, every scream in the night because of this is on you…this was almost war… do you understand that Isabella? WAR! NO WAR IS WORTH YOU WENCH!!” He drops her and she scrambles back away from him coughing.

“Hawke… I…” She stammers but is silenced by his glare.

“Save your breath and help the injured. You WILL remain in Kirkwall until I see fit for you to leave. You owe her a debt.” He does not say what is truly on his mind. That _his_ death is her fault.

It is clearly his own.

“It seems Kirkwall has a new Champion.” Meredith says as she folded her arms over her armor. Behind her the nobility cower behind her and the Templars. He gives her a nod, something to worry about later.

There are no chears as he limps out towards High Town, people just part.

No Templars object when his sister moves to his side and helps him walk, arm thrown over her shoulder.

No one follows them out to see him colapse only to be gathered up between Aveline and Fenris and rushed back to the estate before he bleeds out.

Few hear Anders’ curse as he feels Conner’s pulse flutter against his magic as the overuse of too many potions throw his heart into erratic fits and threaten to stop.

Isabella follows, Cassandra in her hands, and fears what her future holds.


	8. Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The time between the Fall and getting back up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> un-beted, un edited really. Listen to Mass Effect 3 OST: I was lost without you

Time does not matter in the Fade. All is Eternal and yet nothing there. In its embrace the Arishok’s tent is full of more vibrant colors, bereft of the stench of the Low Town Docks and the biting bugs that sometimes came on a hot night. There the bedding was softer, the blankets smoother to torn skin. He still hurt in this place, pain was inescapable after what just happened. Pain of the body and of the heart.

He’s never sure which is worse.

“Such pain creases your brow, Kadan.” Broad fingers wipe sweat dampened hair from his skin. His imagination was too vivid, too perfect. Thick grey lips press in consternation when he does not respond. “No quick witted answer this time?”

“You are dead.” Conner’s voice is broken when he says it. He can admit that here. where everything and nothing matters. “I killed you.”

“We all die, Kadan. We do not chose how. We can only do it well.” His hands track a cold chill down fevered skin. Is he sick in the waking world? Is someone there? He wants to wake to find out, to tell them to go away. To let him die too.

“What about those who haven’t yet?” The longing in his voice mirrored a time before time. When he did lay in the Arishok’s bed unable to stop his fool mouth from running.

“You must continue.” The answer is different, its tone as well. Sorrowful. Regretful. All too knowing of that which Hawke is unaware of yet. “We do not mean to leave you behind. You came to me broken and yet you rebuilt yourself. You will again. Even with the world burning around you…you will again.”

“You aren’t here to help this time.” He sounded like a petulant imakari. The suffering sigh told him he was forgiven the lapse for now.

“Your strength surrounds you. Draw from it until you can stand.”

Something crashes beyond the Fade, shouts, angry voices filling the void. Everything shifts in the Fade. The house in Lothering, his Father towering over him with his arms crossed over his chest.

“Why do we fall, son?”

—————————————————— 

“Father!”

Conner’s hand reaches out to clutch at the dissolving specter of his Father as the world returns. When his eyes focus he clutches little more than the curtains around his bed in the Estate.

The voices are real however. He’d know Meredith’s voice anywhere as she argues with someone… Aveline.

“Get up.” Conner croaks to the empty room. His tongue feels thick and dry, his body strongly protesting movement of any form. Clad in little more than herb scented red bandages he wills himself to stand.

“Walk. One foot in front of the other.” In his head it is not his voice. It echos of his Father. It rings of his Kadan. His weight shifts and he falls hard, bouncing off the bed with a yelp to crumple on the floor. Too weak… he isn’t ready yet.

“I said… get… up.” He feels stitches tear, blood flow sluggishly anew as he pushes himself back up, uses the bed to get back to his feet. He breaths deep each step, lets it out with pained stutter before moving again. He fairly hurls himself across the gap between the end of the bed to the desk near the door. The rogue grunts and bits back a sob as the walnut desk impacts his stomach and all the damage there.

“Little further.” He assures himself before holding the wall and shuffling to the door, pushing it open to hear the shouts loud enough.

—————————————————————————

“It has been two weeks. The Champion’s sister must return to the Gallows.” Knight Captain Cullin states imploringly. He stands between Bethany and Aveline and his Commander and the five other templars she brought with her to take Bethany away. They shift nervously around this space, unsure if it will be magic or traps that kills them.

“Conner isn’t even conscious yet. He needs my healing if he is to survive. I am not going anywhere.” Bethany snarls, stamping her foot. “I have not left the estate, ask Captain Aveline she’s been here most of the time.”

“It is know that Champion Hawke consorts with apostates. Who could vouch that he has not planned this to ensure your escape?” Meredith hisses, all but a breath away from shoving Aveline aside to take Bethany back by force.

“I think…” Speaking at volume is harder but he wills it. The railing of the second floor provides some modesty as he leans heavily upon it in all his injured glory. “I can.”

“Conner!” Bethany runs up the stairs full tilt and grabs his good arm to throw over her shoulder before he collapses.

“Good timing.” He whispered giving her a bit of a lopsided smile as his knees give out.

“You Blighted idiot!” She snapped back. “What do you think you are doing.”

“Getting… back up.” He leaned harder and looked back down on the people in his home. “If you are so fearful of my influence, Knight Commander, you may assign a templar here until I am fit enough to live without my sister’s talents. I have room.” He met Meredith’s gaze, swept it over the gathered there. Donnic, Aveline, Bodhan, Sandal, even Orana too. He willed strength in his gaze and posture to stand straighter. “I will not, however, abide you or anyone else barging in and disrupting my home. Have I not shed enough blood for Kirkwall to be afforded that one nicety?”

“Just because you saved the city from the Qunari…” Meredith’s mouth runs before her head does and somewhere he is glad for it. His foe has shown weakness for him to exploit.

“I did save the city from the Qunari.” He barked back. “That and a dozen other things nether your Templars nor the Guard could have handled or were aware of. I might add the Chantry also added to the chaos involving the Qunari. Where were you then Meredith? Where was your high and mighty Hand of the Maker when His people needed you as Kirkwall burned and their screams echoed in the street?”

“We had to secure the Gallows.”

“The Qunari despise mages more than even you do.” He spat. “You hoped the city burned so you might rule it too. Now you do. Happy?” The door behind her opened and Varric, Isablla, Sebastian and Fenris entered. She was outnumbered and at a tactical disadvantage.

“You are obviously still injured and in need of rest, Champion.” Meredith said diplomatically. “I leave the Knight Captain to watch over your sister and see she returns to the Circle when you are well enough to serve the city you have served so well so far. I leave the peace of Kirkwall to you, Captain.”

“Thank you for your endorsement, Knight Commander.” Aveline’s ire is just barely contained but Conner can hear the acid bubbling in the back of her words. It makes his heart swell a bit.

“As you say, Knight Commander.” Conner waved a hand. “You may take your leave then. I have no strength to see you to my door.”

“I can find it well enough, Champion.” Meredith bowed and spun on a heel, her templars save Cullin following her. His friends parted to let her pass and Fenris followed the lot to the door to ensure they all left. Cullin just stood there abandoned and a bit confused.

There… peace kept. He let out a breath and wavered as everything turned grey and the floor came up to catch him.

“Flames… Aveline!” Bethany shouted somewhere in the murk of vertigo. There’s stomping feet, a cacophony of voices, nearly a dozen hands grabbing and pulling. Somewhere in there someone drapes something over him. The hands become less frantic when he whimpers and crumples a bit further into someone’s embrace.

—————————————————————

It all gets… warped from there. An odd darkness between the Fade and Awake.

He hears a rumbling voice quietly read the words of the Qun.

Smells his Mother’s perfume as she tucks him in…

Hears the absent humming of his Father’s voice and the tingling feeling of his herbal remedies.

Amid all of it… somewhere swimming in the black a sliver of blue. A plea.

“Don’t leave me now, Hawke.” the blue begs in a broken voice. It pulls him from the abyss.

———————————————————————-

The greyness fades to flickering firelight. He’s back in bed, flat, covered, pleasantly numb. Further inspection finds the bed isn’t the only space occupied.

One of the love seats was brought up and sits under the window. Sebastian lays sprawled out of his armor with Bethany resting on his chest looking haggard and worn. Stains of tears mark her cheeks and all he wants to do is say he’s sorry.

Another chair sits in a corner with his Lothering box being used as a foot stool. Aveline naps there, covered in a blanket with a sheaf of paper work slipping from her fingers. Donnic leans against her chair, equally asleep, one of her hands entwined with his on his shoulder.

At his desk Isabella is slumped over piles of letters. It’s too far away to guess who should be answering them. Anger burns a bit in his chest and his heart thumps hard, knocking at his ribs.

“shh… relax.” The low voice next to him nearly frightens Conner right out of the bed but his body is too worn to really react. Rolling his head to the side amber eyes settle on Fenris. In his bed. The elf is bereft of his armor, a simple pair of trousers and Conner’s favorite sweater. Branded fingers encircle his wrist and in his sleep Fenris speaks quietly to try and sooth Conner’s erratic pulse. Conner drinks in the sight and soon he calms and so does Fenris. He traces lines of worry and lyrium and the way the fire dances on his silver hair. He commits as much of this moment as he can to memory because he does not know if this is the Fade or not.

“You’re a hell of a guy Hawke.” Conner shifted to look at the chair beside the table where Varric watched him. In his lap a big journal was slowly being filled with his latest tale. “Only you would come back from almost dead to tell Meredith off. Do us a favor and stay put. It’s hard enough sneaking Blondy in here now with Captain Chaperon around. We don’t need him to be makin’ special trips now.”

“Anders?” All his questions come out in that one name. How is he getting up here? Has he been spotted? Meredith has to have the place watched or knows enough of him now to look for him… Fenris’ fingers tightened again on his wrist as if in his sleep he knew where Conner’s mind was spinning. Knew it was bad for him or perhaps just didn’t like him working himself into a tizzy over the mage.

“Let me worry about it for now. I know how you think well enough now, Conner.” Varric said with a sigh. The usually unflappable dwarf sighed and looked… down right sad and scared for a moment. “I got your back for a while ok buddy? You just focus on getting better. You really had us worried for a while there.”

“Had you worried?” Conner glanced around the room again. He caught sight of Ander’s medic bag and a few drawings on his walls… Merrill’s doing no doubt. Glyphs and prayers to the Creators for protection and strength.

“Ok down right terrified. Some of us anyway.” Varric looked away for a moment but the human wasn’t fooled. “We almost lost you a time or two. That ticker of yours needs to be better taken care of.” Varric pointed at his chest. “Found out about the whole post-crazy apprentice lady too. Trust me Broody got several ear fulls over it.”

“Put the… fear of Papa Varric in him?”

“You bet your bruised butt I did. Just don’t say it too loud that you know. Promised I wouldn’t tell.” Varric chuckled. “Go back to sleep we got things covered.”

“Ok Papa Varric.” Conner grinned a little and let his head roll back over to watch Fenris sleep. He didn’t care of Varric wrote about it. Carefully he moved his still bruised hand to twine fingers with the unconscious elf. Sleep tugged him back into the Fade, but not before Fenris curled tighter to his side with a sigh of relief.

“Why do we fall down?” Malcolm’s voice whispered to him from the Fade, a deep memory when his Father was a towering man and he did not know the name Bethany or Carver.

“To get back up again.” He answers with certainty now as he drifts away into the black. “Gather our strength around us and get back up.”

“That’s my boy.” Varric says quietly. He puts his book down and tugs the blankets higher before carefully stepping over people to put another log on the fire and continue his vigil.


End file.
